The cockroach janta party reminds me of the long afternoons in Bolpur field, watching the local panchayat meetings drag on—everyone agreeing so nobody gets hurt, while the small farmers like my baba wait another season for that one drainage canal. Dada, my advisor says democracy is slow, but standing in the queue for subsidised seeds while bureaucrats form yet another committee to study the "issue" makes me think sometimes a bit of competitive chaos is less cruel than polite delay. The ones who suffer most—like the old lady in our para who lost her entire mustard crop to the early rains—they don’t have time for another five-year plan. My father, sipping his evening coffee, just shakes his head and says, "Eshob kotha bole labh ki, Joyeta—if we fixed one broken pump today, that would be real politics.